Checkmating the King
by RavenOfFrost
Summary: A squeal to my story The Third Brother. After Moriarty and his right-hand man escapes, John is eager to get his revenge as Sherlock and his brothers knows that time is running out in stopping Moriarty from "bringing England to its knees". Rating just in case.
1. Prologue

**This is the second part of my first story The Third Brother, so you may want to read that ****first. **

**None of the characters besides the unfamiliar belong to me. The rest belongs to BBC and Sir Conan Doyle. Hope you enjoy. **

**Just in case you didn't read the first one, think of Tom Hiddleston as the Sherrinford.**

* * *

><p>"Bored," Sherlock Holmes heavily sighed with boredom as he was laying on the couch like a dead fish, dressed for the day, while John Watson was making tea at midday. It was Friday and there were no cases for the past two days- which was incredibly annoying for the consulting detective.<p>

"Like looking for Moriarty is boring," his friend called with sarcasm from the kitchen.

The detective rolled his eyes as his arms flopped over his head, trying to find something entertaining even though is was only a movement of both arms. "He's gone and that means waiting," he groaned.

Jim Moriarty and his right-hand man, Sebastian Moran, had gotten away again a month ago, nearly killing the detective's older brother, Sherrinford Holmes, and Molly Hooper, his own pathologist in a game of "Only One Will Be Saved". Both of them were saved, however, but barely as Sherrinford was shot and was pronounced dead with no heartbeat for nearly five minutes. If only the detective had paid attention to his brother's limp at the time, he wouldn't have gotten shot. Sherrinford, of course, didn't blame his little brother for the shooting, even though in the beginning, the detective was blaming himself as he left his already wounded brother in the dust. Not only did his brother get shot, but Moran got away.

John's beloved wife's killer.

"You will get your revenge," Sherlock called, knowing what was on his friend's mind as the thought entered his own.

"I'm not worried about revenge," John began as he walked out with two cups of tea, handing one to the detective. "I just want the bastard locked up forever."

Sherlock sat up correctly as he took the cup. "He will. And so will Moriarty." He took a sip of the tea with content. Just the way he liked it. Black with two sugars.

"I just want to know when. He not only killed my wife, but my daughter's mother." Anger and pain starting to leak through his voice. Three months had past since John had found his wife dead in their home. Thank God that their baby, who was only two-months-old at the time, was unharmed. "I'm just relieved that your brother didn't kill her," he sighed on a lighter note as he stood aside by the table.

Sherrinford's initials were found on Mary Watson's phone's text screen at the crime seen, but was framed by Moran, wanting the attention directed to the detective's brother, who believed in his brother.

"So am I," Sherlock muttered, then a thought returned to his mind as he bowed his head, not able to look at his friend. "John. I'm sorry that I broke my vow. I didn't pro-"

John shook his head. "No. Don't. Don't start that again."

Sherlock raised his head as pain filled his heart, looking at his friend. He would have this feeling come and ago since the death and wasn't sure if it would ever stop coming.

"You didn't break your vow." John looked him dead in the eye. "You _didn't _break your vow. None of us were there." He looked away, slowly nodding his head as he knew the truth that they weren't there to stop it.

The detective looked ahead of himself as he sipped on his tea in silence. A moment later, his phone got a text. "Hand me my phone," he coldly ordered to his blogger, who did what he was told, picking up the phone from the table and handed it to the detective.

Sherlock read the text, then handed it back to his friend to place it back where he found it. "Sherrinford is coming over."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Just wanted to visit."

"He's nothing like Mycroft, is he?"

Sherlock sighed. "You met him."

John smirked. "He's more like you than anything."

"Indeed," he murmured, knowing that it was true. The two brothers were more like each other and it was amusing how it got on the eldest's nerves.

There was a knock on the door and just before Sherlock was about to stand up, it opened to a smiling Sherrinford, dressed in a dark suit. "Hello, little brother." He gave a nod to the blogger. "John."

John gave a small wave.

Sherlock looked at his brother with confusion. "I thought you-"

"I was already parked in front when I texted you," he broke in, closing the door.

The detective gave him a suspicious look, knowing that something had to be wrong. "So why this sudden visit?"

Sherrinford reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, flipped through it, then handed it to his brother on the text screen. "Someone sent me a death threat. Care to guess who?" It sounded in light mood. Probably trying to loosen things up.

Sherlock read it as he answered, "Moriarty?"

"Yes. And since they know where I live, they could come in and kill me when they get the chance." He gave the his little brother a unamused glare.

A month ago, Moran arrived at the Holmes brother's door and was about to kill him, until the girlfriend intervened. Lucky for both of them, Moriarty got an idea for a game for the detective, placing Sherrinford Holmes's and Molly Hooper's lives in danger.

"Did you tell Amelia?" Sherlock asked, handing him back the phone.

He placed the phone back in his coat pocket. "No, but I told her to come with me and wait in the car. I didn't want to leave her at home."

"Smart idea," John bitterly said, earning the older brother's attention.

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"No," he waved his hand, "just a mourning husband trying to give some tips on how to protect the girlfriend slash wife when there's a madman around."

"He's not going get away," Sherrinford promised, trying to look the other man in the eye. He was well aware of what the damage that Moran had done and nearly too kthe fall for it.

John just nodded as if he was trying to stay strong, sipping on his tea.

Sherlock looked at his brother as he drew his own tea to his lips. "You keep an eye on Amelia just in case he does decide to drop by for a visit." Then took a sip of the tea.

His brother sighed. "Of course. I'll be going. Got a girlfriend to watch over." He began to head for the door, then stopped and looked at his little brother with guilt. "Sherlock, I'm sorry that I blew my cover. Otherwise I would still be-"

Sherlock waved it off. "It's better that you aren't. Don't worry about it."

The former double agent gave a small smile, then placed his hand on the knob.

"That's it?" The detective asked, looking at him with wonder. "Just the text?"

"I figured that it was better telling you personally," he answered in a low voice, then opened the dark door and left, closing it behind him.

John looked at the door. "What did the text say?" He turned to his friend with curiosity.

"Moriarty wants to stop his heart permanently," he coldly answered, not taking his eyes off the door.


	2. Chapter 1

"So," Mycroft began as he was daintily stirring his tea, sitting on the armchair as Sherlock was on his favorite black chair, "Moriarty wants to forever stop Sherrinford's heart." He gave a bitter smile at his little brother, slowly drawing the tea cup to his lips. "That is a shame." He took a sip.

A day had past since Sherrinford had received the threat and it was time to bring it to the eldest brother's attention. As if he could do anything about it. He seemed not to care as he was not fond of the middle brother, but he was still a brother, and cared for him a little.

"Yes, and John is starting to burst with revenge," the detective stated, unamused by his friend's motives of finding Moran and possibly killing him. Revenge was not going to bring back the dead, he understood where he was coming from. Mary was a wife and mother to a daughter who would never know her. That was truly heartbreaking.

The older brother lowered his cup onto the white saucer with mild wonder in his pale eyes. "One is going to die as the other is going to kill… What is third going to do?"

Sherlock stared at him with studying eyes. "Clearly stop Moriarty and Moran," he coldly answered as if it was obvious. He was not going to allow Sherrinford to die, but if things go out better, he may give John the chance for revenge. Depends on the situation. He didn't want his friend to just kill.

Mycroft smugly chuckled. "Oh, good luck, little brother. Sherrinford was shot once already and-" His voice faded as he smiled in realization. "Oh, that's right. Both of my little brothers were shot already and both nearly died." His smiled disappeared. "England has yet to be brought on its knees and you have yet to suffer."

"Sherrinford is not going to die," he strongly stated, glaring at his brother. "I'm not to allow him to die." He nearly lost his older brother more than once, there was no way he was going to let it happen again. At least, not to Death.

"You can't forbid death to stop," the eldest heavily sighed, as if to tell him to stop dreaming.

"I know that," he snapped with annoyance. "Just not yet. He is still our brother, Mycroft, and our parents were thrilled to see him again." He said that flatter than when man thought the Earth was flat.

Mycroft sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't remind me of how joyful our parents were at Sherrinford's return."

"I couldn't tell if he missed them or not," Sherlock admitted as he remembered his brother hugging his parents with what looked like a forced, uncertain smile.

The two brothers sighed as they shook their heads.

The older brother finished his tea, then stood up. "Well, I better run off. Got paper work to do."

"Criminals?"

"No, payments." Mycroft took a heavy sigh. "Annoying things."

Sherlock looked at him with wonder. "I thought you have people for that."

"My people are on vacation," he grudgingly replied as he headed for the door. "Next time you see our dear brother," he began as he was about to open the front door, "do tell him not to die."

Sherlock just nodded and his brother was gone with the door closing behind. Bored, he stood up walked to the table, picked up his cell phone, and began to text Sherrinford Mycroft's words and sent it. Then, he decided to text Molly about any experiments at the lab and just got a "No" as a reply. Tossing the phone on the table, he picked up his violin and began to play.

The his phone alerted him, causing him to lower the instrument and read the text from Sherrinford with a smirk as it read, "I am deeply touched by his concerns. Please do tell him not to lose sleep over me."

Sherlock texted Mycroft, spreading the message.

* * *

><p>"It was the husband," Sherlock sighed, three days after the meeting with Mycroft as he was laying on the couch when John walked in the flat.<p>

"Huh?" The confused doctor looked at him with wonder, slowly closing the door.

"The husband killed his wife, the hairdresser." He looked at the ceiling with bored eyes as his hands were on his flat stomach.

"Right." Understanding what his friend was explaining, he walked to the table, and pulled up at chair by his friend, looking at him with wonder. "That's why you called me over here? To tell me who was the murderer?"

Sherlock placed his hands together, under his chin. "Yes."

"Why not Lestrade?"

"Didn't want to."

"He's the chief inspector!" John cried with disbelief.

"And?"

"He has the right to know."

"I'll tell him."

"Sherlock."

"Soon."

"What is wrong with you?"

"Bored!" He cried, leaping off the couch, walking aimless to the kitchen and back as his blogger just watched him with bafflement.

"Really? We just solved a case-"

"I want Moriarty behind bars," he grumbled like a child. The thought of the consulting criminal and his right-hand man were still out there burned at hole in his brain.

John turned away and muttered, "You and me both."

Sherlock's heart went out, causing him to stop marching around the flat. "How's Emily?" He asked, looking at his friend with uncertainty.

"Fine," he sighed, looking in front of him, then heavily sighed. "God, it feels like I'm a lousy father." He rubbed his face with both hands.

Sherlock looked at him with mild surprise. How could he even say that let alone think it? He was a great father! He protected and loved his daughter till the end of the Earth! "John," he sternly began in a gentle way, "you are a great father. I have no worry that you-"

"There are times that I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing!" He yelled with frustration, throwing his hands in the air. "Mary would have all the answers! She knew what to do! What the hell am I going to do when my daughter's a teenager! She needs a mother, Sherlock." He looked him in the eyes, and there was pain gleaming in his brown eyes. "I need my wife," he hissed with a tearing heart, slowly turning away.

The detective walked up to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder. "John. Don't worry about that right now. What you need to worry about are you and Emily. I-"

"I miss my wife," he heavily sighed, trying to be strong, then bowed his head, lightly shaking it. "I miss Mary. God, I miss her." He covered his eyes in a distressed manner.

Not knowing what to say, Sherlock just stayed by his friend, allowing him to silently mourn for Mary Watson.


	3. Chapter 2

The night was silent and peaceful while little Emily Sherlock Watson was sleeping soundly in her crib in the room beside her father's, who was trying to have calming thoughts. Images of her mother, his wife, was plaguing his thoughts. He didn't want to stop dreaming about her, but he wanted to stop replaying the scene of discovering her body. It was almost like when Sherlock died and he went up to his best friend's body, feeling his pulse, but of course, he was dead. Or so he thought. He hoped that Mary had somehow faked her death like his genus friend, but she didn't.

Her body went to the morgue and was even autopsied on and only found bullet fragments.

Images of her loving smile and kind eyes warmed his heart. He missed waking up to her and holding her while they slept. The way she would make dinner and breakfast. He missed her gentle heart. He missed _her_.

"John," a whisper of a voice was in his ear.

His eyes snapped open and looked around the dark room. "Mary?" He sat up, hoping that it wasn't a dream. "Mary?" He asked louder.

It was.

It was just a dream.

Covering his eyes, the doctor bowed his head, crying and then covered his face with both hands as he sobbed.

He'll kill him.

Sebastian Moran will die.

John just sat there, crying and crying for his wife, sobbing his beloved wife's name.

* * *

><p>With every passing day, every passing hour, Moriarty was planning something.<p>

Something big.

Sherlock Holmes and his eldest brother, Mycroft, were waiting for a sign, anything, about the consulting criminal's plans about "bringing England to its knees". It was seven in the morning when the detective received a text from his other brother, Sherrinford, saying that he was sent information on Moriarty's plans by the criminal himself. Receiving another text, the detective's eyes stared at the words in a pondering manner.

_Bombs, Sherlock. Bombs are planted around London. _

_Another game,_ he thought, but knew that this was more than just a game. This was chess.

Moriarty made his move, now it was time the detective made his.

_Should we tell Mycroft?_

_No. Not yet. Try to get more information. -SH__  
><em>

_Right._

Sherlock then began to text John.

_I need you at Baker Street. We may have something. -SH_

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><p>An hour had past since John had finally replied as the detective was sitting in his chair, thinking of where the bombs were planted, but he had no clues or trails. Sherrinford had not yet returned with any news as suspected. When the door opened to John, the detective didn't even look at him when he announced, "Moriarty planted bombs around London. Sherrinford is trying to find out where. We have to stay on our guard." He then looked at his friend, slightly taken aback by his drowsy appearance, then took a heavy breath. "You had a dream about Mary, didn't you?"<p>

John opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead he sighed and closed the door, only answering with, "Yeah."

Sherlock turned away, aching for his friend. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's, um…" he cleared his throat as he sat in the armchair. "Yeah." He looked around the flat as if trying to think of something else to talk about. "Sorry that I was late. Had to call the nanny."

"It's fine," he quickly replied, not needing an explanation, also his friend was making up for some sleep that he lost.

Love was a true human error for obvious reasons, but if there was anyone that needed love in their life, it was John Watson. He needed someone to talk to- other than the detective- who was lonely in the beginning, but was all in all happy for the couple. Now the loss of the wife was tearing his best friend's heart out, of course, and it was awful sight for the detective.

"So bombs you said?" John asked, mentally shaking the feeling off, turning to his friend.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, placing his hands together, looking at his friend.

He nodded.

There was a pause.

"Do you…" John began with uncertainty, glancing away, then looking back at his friend. "Do you think Mary could… Not be dead by chance?"

His heart nearly fell at those words. "She didn't fake her death," he sternly answered, not wanting to give his friend false hope.

He just nodded, knowing that it was true.

"Why?"

"I, um…" he cleared his throat again and his voice was quiet. "I thought I heard her voice." He swallowed, trying to hold back the tears.

Sherlock looked away as his heart was now aching.

Was his friend like this after he faked his death? Thinking that he heard voices of his best friend? If he was, Sherlock now knew that very pain he placed his friend in. He knew once in awhile John had nightmares about his friend by the way he would look at him with concern. Even the detective would have nightmares of being tortured and running for his life over those two years. But they both knew that Mary was dead and there was nothing to do about it and revenge was not going to help, but may rest some of John's restless and vengeful thoughts.

The two friends fell in silence for a moment as they were in their own thoughts, until Sherlock's phone went off. "That might be Sherrinford," he commented as he stood up and walked to the table, picking up his phone. Instead, his eyes grew wide as he read a text from a unknown number:

_You may want to check on Molly Hooper._

Feeling dread wash over him, he remembered what day it was and that was a Wednesday. Molly's day off. Immediately, he began to dial the pathologist's phone number, having no time to text.

"Sherlock?" John asked with concern.

He waved his hand, not wanting to hear him as he hopped that she would answer.

"Hello?"

Sherlock nearly sighed with relief. "Molly. Listen to me. I needed you to lock the doors and do not answer if anyone knocks. Do you understand?"

John was now worried as he slowly stood up, not taking his eyes off the detective.

"Why?" There was slight concern in her small voice.

"Just don't." He didn't want to scare her. "I'm on my way right now. Don't answer the door to any-"

_Boom._

"Molly?" He cried as his heart stopped with fear, freezing as he just thought the very worst.

Silence.

"Molly?"

"I'm fine," she squeaked, clearly shaken. "I was in the bedroom. That was in the living room… Help me."

Bomb.

That had to be one of the bombs.

"Stay there, I'm on my way."

"Hurry," she whimpered.

Without another word, he hung up and headed straight for the door, grabbing his coat and scarf.

"Is she all-"

"Bomb!" He shouted at his friend then casually added, "She sounded like she's fine."

The two dashed to Molly Hooper's flat.


	4. Chapter 3

By the time Sherlock and John had arrived to Molly's home, the police were already there and taped off the perimeter. The two friends stared in horror at the size of the blast that whipped out a quarter of the neighbor's house and did some damage to Molly's on the front right side. Telling the cab to wait for a moment, they spotted Molly talking Lestrade, the two bounded over.

The first thing Sherlock did was look at Molly, who had a blue blanket over her shoulders. "Are you alright?" He asked, looking her dead in the eye.

The woman nodded with a short smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Looks like a electrical problem," the detective inspector stated.

The consulting detective darkly turned to him. "No. It was a bomb. A planted bomb from Moriarty himself."

"Moriarty?" The two both gasped in shock.

"Yes. I was told that he was going to do this and received a text to warn me of Molly." He looked back at the damage.

"That's why you called," she said, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Yes," he replied, turning to her. "But I didn't know it would be a bomb." If that bomb had harmed his pathologist, he didn't know what he would do. It was Molly Hooper that they were dealing with, but they did have Mary Watson killed. There was no way he was going to lose anyone else to this madman.

"So this was an attempt on Molly's life?" Lestrade cried in disbelief.

Sherlock looked at the blast on the neighbor's house. "No. If it was he would've planted the bomb on her house. This was a mere warning."

"Warning to what? Another one of those questions for you to save the hostage in time?"

"Something else," he lowly answered, as John was comforting the girl, knowing that this was more than just a game.

"Sir!" Anderson bounded over to Lestrade with worry. "We've got news of another explosion."

Just as he said that, Sherlock's phone began to ring. Pulling it from his pocket as John asked Molly if she was going to be alright, he saw that it was from Sherrinford and answered it as he turned away from the others. "What's wrong?" He asked, jumping straight to the point.

"It's Amelia," the brother answered heavily. "She's fine, but there was an explosion at her solon. She was running late for a appointment and just before she got there, it blew. Sherlock, I think this was meant to for her."

"The same happened at my pathologist's home. She's fine, but it was a bomb, Sherrinford."

"Oh my God," he whispered. "So I was right."

"Where is she now?"

"At home. With me. I didn't tell her, but-" he heavily sighed, "that was for her. That was for my girlfriend." He was in utter disbelief.

The sirens of some of the police began to drive away as John was standing close by with Molly as Sherlock did a quick look around. "Molly's life wasn't attempted on, but as a warning," Sherlock strongly explained. "However, if Amelia was on time, she would've been there."

"They knew about the appointment."

"They did, Sherrinford, and they probably know more."

His brother was silent for a few seconds. "I'll call you later, little brother."

"Very well."

Then he hung up.

"What's going on?" John asked with wonder as he approached him.

"That bomb was meant for Amelia," he grimly answered, not looking at his friends. "Sherrinford's girlfriend, but she's fine."

"So what are we going to do now?" John asked with concern. "We can't just leave Molly."

"No," the woman quickly stated with a uneasy smile. "I'm fine. Really. I have a friend I can go to."

John turned to her with concern. "Are you sure?"

"She wasn't the target," Sherlock stated, thinking of his next plan of action.

"So what?" His friend snapped. "She was still placed in danger!"

He began to walk to the caution tape, lifting it up for his friend. "We're going to my brother's."

"Sherrinford?" He asked as he ducked under.

"Yes," he answered as he followed, standing outside of the perimeter.

"And what of Molly?"

Sherlock turned to Molly who was now talking to a officer, handing him back the blanket as he lowered the tape. "She's fine."

"Sherlock."

He looked at him. "What?"

"She needs a friend," he quietly stated, looking him in the eye.

The detective rolled his eyes. "She said she has a friend."

"Molly was lucky that she wasn't hurt!"

Sherlock leaned forward with narrowed eyes as frustration was rising, staring into his friend's own. "If anything happened to Molly, things would've gotten more personal," he was practically hissing at his friend. "If Amelia was hurt, things would've gotten personal with Sherrinford. Things already gotten personal with you. Don't you get it? Molly was not aimed at, Amelia was, and look at your wife. Moriarty made three moves already and I am far behind. Sherrinford may have answers and I need to know what." With that, he stormed to the waiting taxi with his friend beside him.

* * *

><p>Arriving at Sherrinford Holmes's home, the two friends paid the taxi and approached the white door. Sherlock knocked and was answered to his bother, who gave a small smirk in wonder. "Didn't know you'd come here."<p>

"I like to make unexpected visits," the detective replied, not taking his eyes off his brother, who was dressed in his usual suit.

His brother walked to the living room as his blonde girlfriend was sitting on the black, leather couch, hugging herself as she was getting over the shock. "Come in," he stated as he joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "So, a bomb also hit Molly?" He asked, but not taking his eyes off his girlfriend, only to glance at his little brother.

Sherlock stepped in as John closed the door. "She's was not targeted. Just a warning. The bomb was at her neighbor's," he simply explained.

"I'm glad that she's alright," Amelia said as she gave a signal to her boyfriend that she was fine. "Just how did they know that I had a hair appointment?" She looked at the detective with wonder.

Sherlock slowly walked up to them. "They clearly have some information." He looked at his brother, wanting to say something.

"You said you were running late?" John asked in stead as he stepped forward.

Amelia nodded, looking at him. "Yes. And when I got there, it blew. The force was so strong…"

"She called me immediately," Sherrinford sighed, lightly shaking his head. "I knew that it was-" John's phone began to ring- "Moriarty."

"Sorry," the doctor said as he removed his phone, walking away to answer.

Before Sherlock could say anything, John hung up at hurried to the door like a bat out of hell.

"John?" The detective asked with wonder. "Are you-"

"My daughter!" he shouted at him, skidding to the door. "Bomb!" He rushed out the door.

"John!" Sherrinford called out as he leapt to his feet. "I'll drive!"


	5. Chapter 4

By the time the trio had arrived that John's flat, Sherlock's heart stopped at the shape of the home. The front of the flat was practically blown off as police and firefighters were at the scene with the area taped over. They stepped out of the car and froze for a moment, staring at the scene, until John bolted to the building and the police, calling for his daughter. "Emily!"

Sherlock and Sherrinford quickly followed. This wasn't just John's baby, but it was also Sherlock's Goddaughter. His Goddaughter.

The sight of John running around calling for his baby's name tore at his heart. First he lost Mary, and now his baby's life was in danger. This man can't take much more.

"My baby! Where is she? Where is Becca, the nanny?"

A officer calmly approached the distraught John as the two brothers were nearing. "Rebecca Davidson is dead. She died in in falling debris, but," a medic was holding a bundle in a white blanket coming from behind, "your baby is fine." A smile formed on his face.

John turned around to his sleeping daughter in a smiling medic's arms and when he took his daughter, he fell to his knees, holding her close as he was crying. "Thank God. Thank God I didn't lose you," he sobbed in relief.

Sherlock and his brother, as well as the others, just stood back, allowing the father let out his overwhelming relief of his baby girl. The detective never been so relieved in his life as he knew that his Goddaughter was alive and well.

"She was in her room when the explosion occurred. She was lucky that she was," the officer stated.

"You're safe," John whispered through the tears to his baby. "You're safe and I will keep you like that. I'm not going to lose you." He swallowed and said strongly, "I'm not."

The detective approached his friend's side and placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him that everything was okay. Emily Sherlock Watson was alive and she was going to stay like that for a long time.

After the doctor composed himself, he stood up, still holding his sleeping baby close. He told the officer that Becca the nanny's loss was going to be mourned as she should not have died in such a horrible accident. A young thing she was and sweet girl as Sherlock remembered her after brief couple of meetings.

Sherlock knew that John was relieved that it was her instead of his baby, because right now, that was the only thing that was keeping him sane. Becca would certainly be missed, but right now, his daughter was the only thing that mattered. A thought then entered the detective's mind as he looked at his friend. "Who called you?"

John looked at him with a relieved smile. "Hm?"

"The call you got about the bomb. Who called you?"

John thought about then shook his head. "I don't know."

He held out a hand as he pulled out his own phone with the other. "Give me your phone."

His friend did what he was told.

Sherlock went through both of their caller history and sure enough, the same number had called them both for Molly's and Emily's endangerments. He handed him back the phone. "We need to trace this caller," he stated, putting his phone away.

"Sherlock?"

He headed to his brother's black car as Sherrinford was following.

"Sherlock!" John called as he jogged. "I have a baby in my arms!"

The detective stopped, remembering that now they had a kid to look after, but not any kid: His Goddaughter. When his friend was at his side the three men walked to the car as Sherlock's mind was thinking. "I'm going to go to the station to have the number traced. You stay at the flat with Emily. Sherrinford, you can return home. I'm sure your girlfriend needs you."

"Right," the both answered simultaneously.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was at the lab along with Lestrade, trying to trace the text from his own phone that lead to a pre-paid phone that belonged a man named Chris McGraw. Doing a research on the man, McGraw turned out to have a criminal record, of course, but not having connection to the man, there was no way to find him. Running his fingers through his black, curly hair, the detective was frustrated. Already three people nearly died and one was John's baby, the only one keeping the doctor sane right now. Shaking his head, he took his phone and headed for the door.<p>

"I'll put out a search for him," Lestrade announced.

"Very well," he coldly replied, continuing his way.

* * *

><p>When the detective returned to the flat, he found John holding his baby close as Mrs. Hudson was comforting him. "It was a pre-paid phone," Sherlock announced with frustration, closing the door and roughly removing his coat and scarf.<p>

"That's good, isn't?" John asked with confused, hopeful eyes.

"I just don't know where to find the man," he admitted. "We have a name and photo as he was a criminal- Lestrade is putting out a search. Also, there may be still bombs out there- I don't know." He flopped on the couch. Time was running out and he was four steps behind of Moriarty, or was it one large step? He didn't know. All he knew is that time was running out and this McGraw was the only one that held their move!

"I'll go make tea," Mrs. Hudson murmured to herself, scurrying out of the flat.

"So, all we have to do is find this man and interrogate him?" John asked.

"He works for Moriarty," he darkly replied, staring at the ceiling. "It may be harder than just simple questions."

His friend nodded in understanding.

There was a silence, until Sherlock asked, "How's Emily?"

John looked at his daughter. "Fine. Yeah, she's fine."

"I'll take you and her are staying here?"

"Yeah. I called the insurance company on the flat and the landlord."

He looked at his friend, who was rubbing his face with a hand. "How does it look?"

"It's going to cost a lot," he heavily sighed, "but I don't have to pay. Wasn't my fault." He gave a quick smile.

The detective chuckled as he looked at the ceiling. "No. It was Moriarty's."

John then took a deep breath, looking at his daughter. "Becca was young and nice. She shouldn't have gone out that way." He shook his head. "But if it was Emily?" His voice faded.

Sherlock looked at him and saw the tears coming into his friend's eyes as he was looking away, trying not to cry. "John," he warned. "Don't think about it. Your daughter is safe and alive. Don't think about it."

"She could have died, Sherlock!" He snapping, whipping his head to him with pain and anger gleaming in his eyes.

"I know," he gently said, hating to see him like this.

The two returned to silence as John was holding his sleeping baby close while Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

Once again, Moriarty got away scot-free.


	6. Chapter 5

The man named Chris McGraw was apprehended at noon in two days. Sherlock and Sherrinford went to talk to the man at the station as Lestrade was waiting outside the door. Since Sherrinford was the one who pretended to work for Moriarty as a double agent, he knew of this man and insisted on coming. Especially after what happened to his girlfriend or at least what could have happened. When the two brothers stood in front of a raggedy-looking man with sandy-brown hair, a strong face and rough, blue eyes.

"So," McGraw began in a low, amusing voice with a smile. "The two Holmes brothers come together." He glared at Sherrinford on the detective's right. "Bastard," he spat.

"You should keep to death threats," he dryly retorted.

He growled, then looked at the detective. "I'll take you want information on Moriarty."

"How could you possibly think that?" Sherlock sarcastically asked.

"Never cease to amaze?" His brother dryly asked.

"Never," he muttered, knowing that he was talking about the criminal's obviousness.

McGraw shook his head in annoyance. "You two won't make me talk at all. There's no way I'm betraying Moriarty like you-"

Sherlock sighed, raising his head. "You also know that you are facing prison for life and you know that Moriarty won't bust you out. You don't want to believe that, however, and you can't afford to leave your girlfriend behind because you care about her, even though you cheated on her three times in the past two years. If you do tell us, it may reduce your sentence, but don't be surprised if it doesn't and I suggest you tell us because my brother can make it look like you broke your nose on accident." He glared at the criminal. "May I go on?"

He shook his head with worry. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

The two brothers simultaneously pulled up two chairs and took a seat.

Sherlock lean forward, locking his eyes on the man's, placing his fingertips together, and darkly asked, "What is he planning?"

* * *

><p>When they were done with the interrogating, they calmly walked out of the room, closing the door behind them.<p>

"So how did it go?" Lestrade asked.

"We got what we want," Sherlock answered, turning his gaze to the detective-inspector. "If things go in our favor, Moriarty might come to us."

"So," Lestrade looked confused, "we have to wait?"

"Not really. Since we got the messenger, all we need is the bomber."

"Moriarty."

"Exactly." He was about to walk away, but remembered something. "Oh, the criminal was trying to escape and fell out of his chair so he has a broken nose, by the way."

"Wha-"

He began to briskly walk away with his brother following. "Good day, Granger."

"It's Greg!"

When Sherrinford joined his side, the detective smirked at him. "How was the punch of revenge?"

"Bloody awful," he murmured, give his right hand a shake. "But worth it."

The two brothers smiled, chuckling to each other as they heeded to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>After Sherrinford dropped his little brother off at the flat, Sherlock made his way inside, closing the door just as Mrs. Hudson came with with a sealed envelope. "Oh, Sherlock," she said, approaching him, handing it to him. "This came in for you about an hour ago."<p>

"Why not give it to John to hold on?" It was unusual to have the landlady wait until the detective returned home to give him mail as she would give it to John to hold on to. He inspected his own name on the front written in black ink of a calligraphy pen. Clearly, the deliverer wanted to be classy about it.

"The gentleman told me to give it to you only."

He looked at her with stern curiosity. "What gentleman?"

She shrugged, not understanding what he meant. "Just a man."

"Was he blonde?"

"I think so. Do you know him?"

"Is John home?" He asked looking at the older woman with stern eyes, hoping that he didn't know that Moran, his wife's killer, was in the same building.

"Yes." She then sadly sighed. "Poor John. He seems so lost without Mary. And that poor child…" She took a heavy sigh, "never knew her mother. Oh, I hope you find the killer soon, Sherlock. It's-"

He tore the envelope open, taking out a note. Blocking out the landlady's words, he began to read:

_I see that you caught McGraw, but how will that help you? Considering that you have no idea what move to make, I shall make another move. _

_-M xox_

Without another thought, he hurried up the stairs, not listening to a word of Mrs. Hudson. Getting to his flat, he practically threw his door open, marching in. "Moriarty is going to make another move."

John looked at his with disbelief of annoyance as he was holding a sleeping Emily on the couch.

Sherlock winced as he slowly closed the door. "Sorry," he said in a hushed tone.

"What did you find out from the man?" he asked, just wanting to get an answer and not ideas or plans. Just answers.

The detective sighed, knowing that his best friend was internally suffering from the loss of his wife and wanting her murderer to be put away for life or even dead as he still speaks and thinks of revenge nonsense. "By 'bringing England to its knees' Moriarty means that he is going to blow something up. Something big!" He began to pace, remembering McGraw's grim words.

"How big?" John uneasily questioned, not taking his eyes off the pacing man.

He stopped pacing, slowly turning his head to his friend and answered in low, baritone voice, "Buckingham Palace big."

"Oh, Christ," John whispered, rubbing his face with his free hand. Then looked at him with wide, frustrated eyes. "How the hell are we going to stop him considering he nearing kill three people in one hour?" He nearly yelled, remembering that his daughter was asleep.

He raised letter that he received. "Moriarty sent me this and something tells me we'll meet him face-to-face before anything happens."

He pointed a finger at the detective. "You better tell Mycroft."

"I don't want to worry him," he murmured, not wanting to admit as he tossed the letter on the desk like a feather.

"Sherlock," he snapped.

He looked at him. "I'll tell him… Eventually."


	7. Chapter 6

Only a mere day had past since Sherlock had learnt about Moriarty's big plan and knew that he had to be stopped. The detective still didn't want to tell Mycroft about it as he did not want to worry his eldest brother yet, but time was running short and the phychopathic criminal was still at large, and over the map of London, was a large question mark, asking where the criminal was located. Sherrinford would contact the detective, anxiously trying to get an answer from his brother, but of course, the answer was the same and he nervously understood.

In the meantime, John would still fester in rage, hungry for revenge and Sebastian Moran, his wife's murderer, was still at large. He knew that Emily Sherlock Watson was keeping him sane, but the revenge was too strong. Mary, his beloved and wonderful wife, was taken too early from him. At least he still had Emily, that was all that he could ask for. While his friend was sitting in the kitchen working on a experiment, he was just sitting on the couch with his baby in his arms.

"John?" Sherlock called as he opened the fridge.

"Yeah?"

"Can you go to the store and get some milk?"

"Are you serious?" He called in disbelief. "We just got some."

"Ran out." He closed the fridge, disappointed that there wasn't a single drop of milk.

"How?"

"We used it?" He asked as if it was an obvious question, standing up straight.

John walked to the kitchen entrance with his baby in his arms. "Already? It was like five days ago we bought one milk."

Sherlock just looked at him. "Can you just go get the milk? Would you please do that for me?"

His friend just stared at him.

Then the detective's eyes grew wide in horror. "John. I didn't mean to-"

The doctor took a deep breath, walking away.

Fearing what he had just said, he trotted to his friend. "John. I didn't realize-"

His friend looked at him with pain-filled and stern eyes. "I thought I lost you once, Sherlock," his voice was quiet as he was staring the detective in the eyes. "I just lost Mary… The last thing I want is a reminder that my best friend supposedly died, especially when there is a madman trying to destroy England!" He shouted and his baby began to whine, causing him to quickly apologetically soothe her.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I know," he said, trying to calm his friend down. "I know. I didn't mean it like that."

John nodded. "I know," he sighed. Then he shook his head. "I just don't want to lose anymore people."

"And you won't," he promised, making his friend look him dead in the eye. "I'll go to the store real quick. You stay and do… Fatherly… Things." With that, he grabbed his coat and scarf and walked out of the door, reminding himself to be careful of what to say.

* * *

><p>Shoving the dark reminder of his friends death, John was just patiently waiting for his friend to return as he sat in the armchair, until his phone rang. Standing up, he walked to the table and picked up his ringing phone to a unfamiliar number. "Hello?"<p>

"I know you miss her," a man's dark voice came through.

"Who is this?" His voice dropped, knowing that it was the murderer.

"You know, John, you just don't want to admit it."

He took a deep breath. "Moran," he said as if he was a snake spitting out venom.

"Oh, you are clever." It sounded like he was smiling in amusement, then became serious. "I know you want revenge. I've been watching you, John Watson."

"Good," he stated emotionlessly, holding back the anger. "Where do we meet, so I could blow your brains out?"

Moran chuckled. "Patience. All in good time, Dr. Watson. It's still being planned as well as your demise."

"The only one dying is you," he dangerously whispered, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "And if your boss _thinks _about blowing up Buckingham Palace, he's wrong. _Damned _wrong. There is no way in Hell that is going to happen."

"Don't you remember what my boss even said first? 'Make Sherlock suffer, and then bring England to its knees.' Don't you get it?"

The doctor began piecing things together. "So if I die, and Sherlock suffers… Moriarty blows up Buckingham."

"Now you're getting it."

God, he sounded like a dry Moriarty.

"That still doesn't mean I wont to kill you," John stated, not thinking about his own words, just the pain of losing his wife and the mother of his child.

"I knew you were going to say that," Moran's voice was dangerous. "But do you really want to leave your baby as an orphan."

Anger began to rise. "I am _not_ going to die!" He practically shouted, knowing that he was not. There was no way he was going to leave Emily alone- even though she had her Godfather- but her mother's murderer was not going to continue to live. Both were a promise and one was only driving him mad, blinding his sense, blinding what he truly had left, but the pain was too much and after the murderer was dead, then he would be able to rest.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Then the line went dead.

John hung up, feeling more determined than ever to kill this man.

* * *

><p>About ten minutes later, Sherlock returned to the flat with a jug of milk in a bag and to John causally sitting on the armchair. "Anything happened?" He asked his blogger.<p>

"Ah… No," he answered.

Giving a small shrug, the detective headed to the kitchen to put the milk away, starting to boil water for tea.

* * *

><p><strong>There will be some hiatus going on right now, but I am still working on the story.<strong>


	8. Chapter 7

The next morning, John had received a message from Moran, informing him on where and when to meet face-to-face. The doctor did not mention a word of it to his friend, knowing that the detective would try to stop him, but this was a score that needed to be settled. A score that needed one more point to call it a win and John did not plan on losing.

Only at ten at night, then he was able to move forward.

He only had to wait until ten to kill that man.

The man that killed his wife.

He even kept checking his gun to see if it was loaded in his room, waiting to send a bullet into that bastard's head. However, he would get distracted by thought through Emily, but when it would return, he was itching for that kill. He was going to kill in Mary's name. His beautiful wife was taken from him as her daughter would never know her. She was taken too soon… Too soon.

Now, Moran was going to be taken in the name of revenge.

"Morning, John," Sherlock greeted, walking past him to the kitchen.

"Morning," he replied, trying to act normal as he was sitting on the couch feeding his baby breakfast.

"How did you sleep?" His friend called from the kitchen.

"Fine. Yeah. Fine." He looked at his phone beside him. "Fine," he murmured.

* * *

><p>Hours slowly ticked by and Sherlock knew that something was wrong with his friend, but figured that it was about revenge and the loss of his wife, so he didn't want to hound him. However, he learnt not to hold things in, and wanted John to talk, but when John would, his friend would try to act like nothing was wrong and Sherlock didn't want to anger him. Things were sensitive enough already.<p>

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion at his blogger as he was sitting in the chair. "The way you look at your phone, you act as if you're waiting for a text. Why?"

"Because I am," John answered as he was sitting across from him in the armchair. "I'm going out for a couple of drink with Mike tonight at nine."

The detective nodded, accepting the answer. It was not the uncommon of at thing for his friend to do.

"I need you to watch over Emily for me while I'm out," he added.

"Of course."

There was a pause.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

* * *

><p>When 9:45 at night rolled by, John was trying to act casual as he could be while he was getting ready to head out to "the bar" as his best friend was going to stay and watch over his daughter. "I'll be out for a few," he called as he was heading for the door.<p>

"Okay," Sherlock called from the kitchen. "Don't do anything stupid."

He wanted to give his daughter a final kiss, but he knew that he was coming back. _I'll be back by eleven give or take. I promise, _he mentally promised his daughter, Sherlock, and to himself. Then he walked out the door, closing it behind him as he knew that it was not for the last time and he marched down the stairs like a soldier heading for battle.

* * *

><p>Arriving at the pool sent chill down John's spine. Images of a bomb strapped to himself flashed before his mind. Shaking the memories from his head, he turned his car off, got out, locked it, and slowly walked the pool's building, ready to pull his gun out. Thinking that it was going to be a similar play than before, he headed to the pool itself. "Moran!" He called as the door closed behind him. "Come out!" Is this what Sherlock felt when he wanted to speak to Moriarty? He looked to the room in the corner where the mastermind was once hiding so long ago, or at least that is how long ago it felt when it was only a few years.<p>

"I knew you'd come," a cold voice chuckled, walking out of the room on the left instead.

John whipped his gaze to him, quickly drawing his gun at the man, so tempted to kill him right then and there.

"Really?" The blond man mused, wearing a heavy coat and clothes. "Just like that? You don't even want to talk?"

"You killed my wife," he growled venomously. "You don't deserve to talk."

"Hey, your wife was a-"

"I know what she was!" He shouted with his voice echoing through the pool. "It doesn't matter what she was, all that matters is that she was my wife and a mother! And you killed her! I should kill you right now." His eyes were narrowed with anger and hate. His blood was cold and his heart was numb. The only thing he wanted to do was kill that man that was in his sights right now.

Moran chuckled. "Then why don't you? I'm in your sights. Kill me right now."

John hesitated.

The target was smiling.

No.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"What's the catch?" He quietly asked, not taking his eyes off the murderer.

Moran grinned deviously, slowly pushing his heavy coat back, revealing a bomb strapped to him.

Horror grew on John's face.

"I told you you'll die first." He then pulled out a gun from under his coat, aiming it at him. "Either you, or both of us."

"I could shoot you in the head," he pointed out. He was a soldier and had very good aim if he said so himself.

Moran gave half a shrug. "True. But would you?"

"Again: You killed my wife." He was not in the mood for games.

Moran sighed, then began to remove the coat along with the bomb, sliding it to the side. "I suppose we should handle this the old-fashion way, don't you think? Don't worry. There are no snipers around us. Just you and me. Also a little bomb if it has be used." There was humor and amusement in his voice.

"You're willing to kill yourself to kill me?" He asked in slight wonder. He was like a colder Moriarty.

"If I have to." He was still aiming his gun at the doctor.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was holding his Goddaughter in arms as he was showing her what a jar of human eyeballs looked like, but she was getting sleepy, not caring about the fascination of human parts. "Oh, very well," he mused, placed the jar down on the kitchen counter. "Time for bed with you." He carried the tired baby to her father's room, setting her down in the crib just as his phone began to ring. He quickly laid the baby down, then headed for the living room, answering it to Lestrade. "Hello?"<p>

"Sherlock," the detective-inspector's voice came through. "Get to the pool right away. We found John's car, a blown up pool, and no John."

His heart froze.

What did he just say?

"The pool is at-"

"I know exactly what pool it is. I'll be there now!" He quickly hung up, dashed for his coat and scarf, ran down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called as he was running. John wasn't found? That was good, right? That means he could be somewhere else other than blown to bits, right? Right?

The older woman hurried out of her flat dressed in a pink robes and pajamas to the rushing detective as he got to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?" She asked with large, worried-filled eyes.

"Look after Emily," he ordered, heading for the door.

"What-"

"Do it!" He slammed the door closed and hailed for a taxi as his heart was slamming against his chest. John, his best friend, was missing and there was an explosion. What did he do? Why did he lie? What the hell was John Watson thinking?

* * *

><p><strong>So sorry for the long wait. I've been on writer's block for this story, but I will try to push on. I hate unfinished stories, anyway.<strong>


	9. Chapter 8

The pool was obliterated. Nothing was left, except for a hole and some water for the pool and police around the blast area. When Sherlock faced the horrid sight, his heart sank to the ground as if a lead weight was pulling it. He got out of the cab so fast, that he didn't even think of paying. Spotting Lestrade, he jogged up to him with large, desperate eyes. He wasn't even going to try to cover this one up. "Where's John?"

The inspector raised his hands, patiently trying to calm him down.

"Where is my friend?" His voice was getting louder as his heart was starting to slam against his chest, fearing of what he was going to hear.

"Sherlock. He wasn't found," Lestrade heavily answered.

"Still? It took me about fifteen minutes to get here. You- you could have at least found something." Anger and pain was turning his gut.

"Sherlock. We've searched everywhere. There is no sign of him."

The detective's phone buzzed.

Hoping that it was John, he quickly pulled his phone from his coat pocket and read a text from a unknown number that read "Blood's running out, Sherlock" with a picture of John laying unconscious- or hoped to be- in what looked like a alley with blood running from his head. His heart froze at the sight, quickly flashed the picture at the investigator, then placed it in his pocket. "You didn't search well enough," he huffed, heading back to the cab as Lestrade ordered a search. He jumped and ordered the driver, "Drive around the blocks."

Who knows where John is?

The driver listened with no question and every time they passed a alleyway, Sherlock would check. Then, shortly after, they found John's body. "John!" Sherlock yelled, running up to his friend's side whose head was in a pool of blood and was deathly pale. "John!" He took his friend's pulse and hardly felt it under his two trembling fingers. Tears began to burn his eyes. "John, stay with me!" He phoned Lestrade as he was trying to shake his friends awake. "Lestrade, I found him. On the alley of Madison and Clearway. He's alive, but barely."

"On the way."

He hung up the phone.

He placed his phone back in his pocket, gently patting his friend on the side of the face. "John. This is no time to die," he stated in the strongest voice he could manage as tears rolled down his cheeks. "I almost lost Sherrinford, there is no way in hell I'm losing you." Sheer terror lurched inside him as he removed his own scarf, and wrapped it around John's wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "Your daughter needs you, I need you, Mary would never want you to die like this! John!"

Serins echoed through the walls as they were nearing their position.

"Is this what it was like?" He whispered as the ambulance pulled over and medics rushed out to them. "When you thought I was dead?" The medics placed John's body on a gurney. He just stayed there on his knees, sitting beside John's blood. Memories of his own "death" returned to him. John did the same thing he was doing right now. Then another memory entered his brain, causing him to jump to his feet and hurry to the ambulance. "I'm coming with," he stated and without question, he jumped in the back with the medics, who immediately began to treat John with the detective by his friend's side.

* * *

><p>The way to the hospital was nerve-wrecking as John had to undergo immediate blood transfusion. At the hospital it wasn't any different. Sherlock was forced in the waiting room as John had to get stitches and blood into his system. Sherlock gave a quick call to Mrs. Hudson to let her know what is going on and that she shouldn't have to worry. Not wanting to talk long, he ended the conversation short.<p>

Funny.

The last time something like this happened was when Sherrinford was shot. Only there was Molly and Sherrinford's girlfriend at his side.

The thought of his older brother gave him a thought that he should call. He had the right to know about this. He stood up and walked outside as he took out his phone, dialing the middle Holmes brother.

"Hello?"

"Sherrinford," his voice was heavy as well as his heart. "It's about John-"

"I heard," he grimly cut in. "Moran is dead and Moriarty is not happy."

"He tried to kill John."

"John is lucky he made it out of that blast."

Sherlock's mind began to panic. "But what if he does die? What if his brain is damaged or something? What do I-"

"Listen, little brother, Moriarty will not get away with this. John is not going to die. Mycroft is on the case right now and I'm am going to stand by your side, Sherlock. If John doesn't make it through… Moriarty has not checkmated the king. We still have other moves to make. Moriarty will not win."

"But John will be dead," he murmured, his heart tearing in half at those words. The thought of losing his best friend was too surreal that it didn't really even hit him yet.

"He might live, Sherlock." It sounded like he was smirking. "You and I made it. John survived war. You never know, little brother. Just think positively for once in your life," he joked, then his tone grew serious. "Good-bye, Sherlock, and I do send my best to John. Call me with you get the news."

"I will."

The line when dead.

Sherlock heavily lowered his phone to his pocket and returned inside to find Molly Hooper waiting for him. "I heard about John," she stated as he approached her. "Sorry. If you want to be alone, I understand. I-"

"It's fine," he gently told the meek woman, looking her in the eyes. "Thank you."

"You want me to stay?" She asked, looking up at him with uncertain brown eyes.

He gestured to the chairs with a weak hand and the two sat down.

"Do you know what happened?" She asked, looking at him, then gave a small smile. "Of course you do." She frowned in worry. "What happened?"

He gave a brief explanation, causing the pathologist to cover her mouth with a gasp. "Oh, God. Is he going to be alright?"

"I don't know," he heavily admitted. He knew John was a determined man and had much to live for right now like his daughter, who was on the verge of ending up orphan. John could not die. Not now. He just could not! He had a daughter who would never remember either of her parents and would probably be stuck with a sociopathic consulting detective, who did not have time for children. What kind of life was that for a child?

Molly placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned into him for comfort.

The thought of losing his best friend was starting to come into reality as tear escaped his eyes once more.

His friend noticed as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and hugged him.

The two sat in silence for a while.


End file.
